When Tozer started after Dacres he led Minnie by the hand for only a little distance.  On reaching the acclivity he seized her in his arms, thus imitating Dacres’s example, and rushed up, reaching the top before the other.  Then he plunged into the woods, and soon became separated from his companion.

Once in the woods, he went along quite leisurely, carrying Minnie without any difficulty, and occasionally addressing to her a soothing remark, assuring her that she was safe.  Minnie, however, made no remark of any kind, good or bad, but remained quite silent, occupied with her own thoughts.  At length Tozer stopped and put her down.  It was a place upon the edge of a cliff on the shore of the lake, and as much as a mile from the house.  The cliff was almost fifty feet high, and was perpendicular.  All around was the thick forest, and it was unlikely that such a place could be discovered.

“Here,” said he; “we’ve got to stop here, and it’s about the right place.  We couldn’t get any where nigh to the soldiers without the brigands seeing us; so we’ll wait here till the fight’s over, and the brigands all chased off.”

“The soldiers! what soldiers?” asked Minnie.

“Why, they’re having a fight over there ­the soldiers are attacking the brigands.”

“Well, I didn’t know.  Nobody told me.  And did you come with the soldiers?”

“Well, not exactly.  I came with the priest and the young lady.”

“But you were not at the house?”

“No.  They wouldn’t take me all the way.  The priest said I couldn’t be disguised ­but I don’t see why not ­so he left me in the woods till he came back.  And then the soldiers came, and we crept on till we came nigh the lake.  Well, then I stole away; and when they made an attack the brigands all ran there to fight, and I watched till I saw the coast clear; and so I came, and here we are.”

Minnie now was quite silent and preoccupied, and occasionally she glanced sadly at Tozer with her large, pathetic, child-like eyes.  It was a very piteous look, full of the most tender entreaty.  Tozer occasionally glanced at her, and then, like her, he sat silent, involved in his own thoughts.

“And so,” said Minnie at last, “you’re not the priest himself?”

“The priest?”

“Yes.”

“Well, no; I don’t call myself a priest.  I’m a minister of the Gospel.”

“Well, you’re not a real priest, then.”

“All men of my calling are real priests ­yes, priests and kings.  I yield to no man in the estimate which I set upon my high and holy calling.”

“Oh, but I mean a Roman Catholic priest,” said Minnie.

“A Roman Catholic priest!  Me!  Why, what a question!  Me! a Roman Catholic!  Why, in our parts folks call me the Protestant Champion.”

“Oh, and so you’re only a Protestant, after all,” said Minnie, in a disappointed tone.

“Only a Protestant!” repeated Tozer, severely ­“only a Protestant.  Why, ain’t you one yourself?”

“Oh yes; but I hoped you were the other priest, you know.  I did so want to have a Roman Catholic priest this time.”

Tozer was silent.  It struck him that this young lady was in danger.  Her wish for a Roman Catholic priest boded no good.  She had just come from Rome.  No doubt she had been tampered with.  Some Jesuits had caught her, and had tried to proselytize her.  His soul swelled with indignation at the thought.

“Oh dear!” said Minnie again.

“What’s the matter?” asked Tozer, in a sympathizing voice.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

“Why, that you saved my life, you know.”

“Sorry? sorry? that I saved your life?” repeated Tozer, in amazement.

“Oh, well, you know, I did so want to be saved by a Roman Catholic priest, you know.”

“To be saved by a Roman Catholic priest!” repeated Tozer, pondering these words in his mind as he slowly pronounced them.  He could make nothing of them at first, but finally concluded that they concealed some half-suggested tendency to Rome.

“I don’t like this ­I don’t like this,” he said, solemnly.

“What don’t you like?”

“It’s dangerous.  It looks bad,” said Tozer, with increased solemnity.

“What’s dangerous?  You look so solemn that you really make me feel quite nervous.  What’s dangerous?”

“Why, your words.  I see in you, I think, a kind of leaning toward Rome.”

“It isn’t Rome,” said Minnie.  “I don’t lean to Rome.  I only lean a little toward a Roman Catholic priest.”

“Worse and worse,” said Tozer.  “Dear! dear! dear! worse and worse.  This beats all.  Young woman, beware!  But perhaps I don’t understand you.  You surely don’t mean that your affections are engaged to any Roman Catholic priest.  You can’t mean that.  Why, they can’t marry.”

“But that’s just what I like them so for,” said Minnie.  “I like people that don’t marry; I hate people that want to marry.”

Tozer turned this over in his mind, but could make nothing of it.  At length he thought he saw in this an additional proof that she had been tampered with by Jesuits at Rome.  He thought he saw in this a statement of her belief in the Roman Catholic doctrine of celibacy.

He shook his head more solemnly than ever.  “It’s not Gospel,” said he.  “It’s mere human tradition.  Why, for centuries there was a married priesthood even in the Latin Church.  Dunstan’s chief measures consisted in a fierce war on the married clergy.  So did Hildebrand’s ­Gregory the Seventh, you know.  The Church at Milan, sustained by the doctrines of the great Ambrose, always preferred a married clergy.  The worst measures of Hildebrand were against these good pastors and their wives.  And in the Eastern Church they have always had it.”

Of course all this was quite beyond Minnie; so she gave a little sigh, and said nothing.

“Now as to Rome,” resumed Tozer.  “Have you ever given a careful study to the Apocalypse ­not a hasty reading, as people generally do, but a serious, earnest, and careful examination?”

“I’m sure I haven’t any idea what in the world you’re talking about,” said Minnie.  “I wish you wouldn’t talk so.  I don’t understand one single word of what you say.”

Tozer started and stared at this.  It was a depth of ignorance that transcended that of the other young lady with whom he had conversed.  But he attributed it all to “Roman” influences.  They dreaded the Apocalypse, and had not allowed either of these young ladies to become acquainted with its tremendous pages.  Moreover, there was something else.  There was a certain light and trifling tone which she used in referring to these things, and it pained him.  He sat involved in a long and very serious consideration of her case, and once or twice looked at her with so very peculiar an expression that Minnie began to feel very uneasy indeed.

Tozer at length cleared his throat, and fixed upon Minnie a very affectionate and tender look.

“My dear young friend,” said he, “have you ever reflected upon the way you are living?”

At this Minnie gave him a frightened little look, and her head fell.

“You are young now, but you can’t be young always; youth and beauty and loveliness all are yours, but they can’t last; and now is the time for you to make your choice ­now in life’s gay morn.  It ain’t easy when you get old.  Remember that, my dear.  Make your choice now ­now.”

“Oh dear!” said Minnie; “I knew it.  But I can’t ­and I don’t want to ­and I think it’s very unkind in you.  I don’t want to make any choice.  I don’t want any of you.  It’s so horrid.”

This was a dreadful shock to Tozer; but he could not turn aside from this beautiful yet erring creature.

“Oh, I entreat you ­I implore you, my dear, dear ­”

“I do wish you wouldn’t talk to me that way, and call me your dear.  I don’t like it; no, not even if you did save my life, though really I didn’t know there was any danger.  But I’m not your dear.”

And Minnie tossed her head with a little air of determination, as though she had quite made up her mind on that point.

“Oh, well now, really now,” said Tozer, “it was only a natural expression.  I do take a deep interest in you, my ­that is ­miss; I feel a sincere regard and affection and ­”

“But it’s no use,” said Minnie.  “You really can’t, you know; and so, why, you mustn’t, you know.”

Tozer did not clearly understand this, so after a brief pause he resumed: 

“But what I was saying is of far more importance.  I referred to your life.  Now you’re not happy as you are.”

“Oh yes, but I am,” said Minnie, briskly.

Tozer sighed.

“I’m very happy,” continued Minnie, “very, very happy ­that is, when I’m with dear, darling Kitty, and dear, dear Ethel, and my darling old Dowdy, and dear, kind papa.”

Tozer sighed again.

“You can’t be truly happy thus,” he said, mournfully.  “You may think you are, but you ain’t.  My heart fairly yearns over you when I see you, so young, so lovely, and so innocent; and I know you can’t be happy as you are.  You must live otherwise.  And oh, I pray you ­I entreat you to set your affections elsewhere!”

“Well, then, I think it’s very, very horrid in you to press me so,” said, Minnie, with something actually like asperity in her tone; “but it’s quite impossible.”

“But oh, why?”

“Why, because I don’t want to have things any different.  But if I have to be worried and teased so, and if people insist on it so, why, there’s only one that I’ll ever consent to.”

“And what is that?” asked Tozer, looking at her with the most affectionate solicitude.

“Why, it’s ­it’s ­” Minnie paused, and looked a little confused.

“It’s what?” asked Tozer, with still deeper and more anxious interest.

“Why, it’s ­it’s ­Rufus K. Gunn.”